We Are Not Eaten by Yaks by C. Alexander London

speaking an ancient language?
    â€œIt’s my dream. I just know.”
    All right. I guess I am speaking an ancient language, but that’s not really the point. I’m a yak. I shouldn’t be speaking at all.
    â€œI agree.”
    Good. Now that we understand each other, I have a cryptic message for you.
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    Cryptic? It means “serving to camouflage an animal in its natural environment.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make any sense.”
    It also means “having a meaning that is mysterious or obscure.”
    â€œThat makes more sense.”
    Thank you.
    â€œYouʹre welcome. So whatʹs the cryptic message?”
    I said it already: You will have to remember enduring Love if you want to escape a terrible fate.
    â€œWhat is that supposed to mean?”
    I don’t know. It’s a cryptic message. I’m just the messenger.
    â€œWell, who are you carrying the message for?”
    It will be clear in time.
    And with that, Oliver found himself awake, staring at his screen. A movie about a lonely superhero was on. He hadn’t been watching a nature show at all. It was just a dream.
    ÊºAha! I knew it! The yak was wrong!ʺ he shouted. The people around him looked over nervously. The man in the seat next to Oliver grunted and pushed earplugs into his ears, shaking his head. Across the aisle, Oliver’s sister jolted out of her own nap.
    â€œWhy are you yelling?” she snapped at him.
    â€œI . . . ummm . . . there was a . . . nothing. Just a dream.”
    â€œWell, you didn’t have to shout.”
    Oliver turned the volume up on his headset and acted like he was watching the movie, but he was really thinking about his dream. What could the green-eyed yak have meant? How would remembering enduring love help him? What terrible fate did he need to escape? It really was a cryptic message.
    Meanwhile, Celia, now awake from her nap, was feeling sore. She was tired of sitting in the uncomfortable airline seats and tired of traveling and tired of worrying what awaited them high in the mountains of Tibet. The man at the window seat next to her kept shoving her arm off the armrest with his elbow. He was reading a newspaper and wore too much cologne. His nose was red and short and he was wearing a shiny black suit that hadn’t wrinkled at all during the long flight. He breathed too loudly through his nose and wouldn’t give back the armrest. She shoved at his arm, reclaiming it by force. Without a word he jabbed right back with his elbow and pushed her off again.
    â€œOw!” she shouted. “Stop being a jerk!” The man glared at her and reached up to press the button that summoned the stewardess.
    â€œMay I help you?” the stewardess asked, appearing almost instantly. She had the whitest teeth Celia had ever seen, but her skin was caked with makeup, like she’d painted her face with the kind of paint they use for road signs.
    â€œThis young lady is being very rude. She has attacked my arm on more than one occasion,” he said, smiling at the stewardess and adjusting the lapels on his shiny suit. “Normally, I wouldn’t complain, but I worry that this family is troubled. They have all shouted at some point during this otherwise pleasant flight. Her latest outburst was simply the last straw.”
    â€œYoung lady?” the stewardess asked, raising her eyebrows at Celia, who really didn’t know what the question was.
    â€œHe pushed me first,” she said.
    â€œWhere is your father?”
    Celia’s heart sank as she pointed to her father, who had now asked a small Chinese lady next to him to hold her finger on a point on a big paper map while he measured some distance with a string.
    â€œHold still, ma’am! Please try to hold very still, otherwise I’m sure we’ll find ourselves lost in the Gobi Desert.”
    â€œSir,” the stewardess interrupted. “Could I speak to you,